


A Temper Trap

by high_functioning_hobo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Werewolves, lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:36:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/high_functioning_hobo/pseuds/high_functioning_hobo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John go to Dartmoor to investigate the mysterious disappearance of a certain Henry Barkerville's father and uncle. But things take an unexpected turn when Sherlock pushes Henry's temper beyond its limitations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Temper Trap

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the FYJFF October competition, with the theme being the spooky and supernatural. I did try my best, but seeing as the word limit started to creep up on me, the ending is a little sloppy and my characterization not quite up to standard. None the less i hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> Also i just realized the amount of typos there are and I am mortified, but this wasn't beta'd so spare me a glance. So sorry guys

Dartmoor. Bleak, but beautiful, so many had called it. Even now as the myriads of green flashed momentarily through the windows of their car, John could appreciate its humble greatness. It was so poetic, so serene, so very not Sherlock. As to why the detective had accepted a case from a lonely, questionably sane, millionaire out into the country was beyond John’s deductive powers. The man was as unpredictable as a storm. For now, John wallowed in the calm of the foggy moore as their train ambled forward.  
___

 

“So let’s recapitulate here; he thinks his father and uncle, and practically most of his past relatives were murdered.”

“Correct”

“He believes this is because they had, at some point, been cursed by an unidentified third party, with no foreseeable motive, who may or may not be a giant dog.”

“Right again.”

“And all of this is somehow occurring because of his enormous, rotting mansion in Dartmoor.”

“He seems to think so.”

“Why are we even taking this case?”

John hovered around the kitchen, making toast and absent mindedly waiting for his tea to brew. Normally he wouldn’t be arguing about a case, god knows Sherlock had needed one as the situation in the flat had escalated to the point where Sherlock was conducting rogue experiments on every flat surface available. Usually it wasn’t John’s business what cases Sherlock did or didn’t want to take, but one meeting with this Henry Baskerville fellow was enough to convince John that consorting with him would do Sherlock’s erratic post case deprivation no good at all. 

But the alternative was Sherlock getting under his skin and being irritable until Lestrade came up with something for him. It defied John’s patience, and John of all people knew the value of controlling your temper. John sighed. His tea was done. Sherlock hasn’t answered his question; he’s lost him to a stray train of thought as he gazes aimlessly at the ceiling, as though a phantom triple homicide was occurring there. No, Sherlock needed this case.

“What I don’t understand is why we have to go all the way to Dartmoor to pacify this lunatic,” John argues, as he places the plate of toast in front of Sherlock, betting on the 3% chance that the stubborn detective might eat. 

“Because he wants us to see his supposedly curse inducing house, and he’s not mad.” Sherlock scoffs as he grabs a bite of toast.

Seeing Sherlock eat makes John smile. “And how do I know you’re not mad?” he retorts. 

“Oh I’m certain I’m not mad, my mother had me tested.”

John giggles. Sherlock chuckles genuinely, and 221B Baker Street feels like the best home John Watson has ever had.  
“To Dartmoor then.”  
___

 

Henry Baskerville is tired when he finally shuts up his study and turns off the hall light. He is tired as he hauls himself down the creaky stairs and makes himself a cup of coffee. He will be tired tomorrow morning when he wakes up in an obscure part of the house which was not his bed. His hideous case of sleep walking was draining the life out of him minute by minute. It must be the time difference and his unfamiliarity with the location that was the cause, he’d think. His body was accustomed to Florida’s sunny skies and beaches, and the cold country air with moody moorlands was nothing he was going to acclimatize to in the near future. Still the move to England had been of essence; after all long doting fathers don’t just vanish into thin air. 

Henry is tired. If tired were a recognized state of existing, that’s what Henry would be. England was not his home, and the more he is forced to settle other people’s affairs in this endlessly grey country, the more he resents it. The rainy skies and bleak landscapes openly mock him. While his life thus far had been running smoothly on the other side of the Atlantic, the country of his birth decides to call him back right when his livelihood is threatening to tumble. But of course it never just rains, it pours, and as one soon learns in England, a light drizzle is always bounding at your heels. His company takes a dive, his crazy uncle disappears and his beloved father follows suite. And the bright red cherry on the cake is the enormous country mansion, complete with vast and brooding country side estate, threatening to fall to pieces at any moment that has been unceremoniously shoved into his care until further notice. 

Henry is far more than rightfully annoyed. Henry is angry. 

___

 

The train pulls in at the Devon station, and Henry Baskerville is already waiting for them. To be frank, John thinks he looks like absolute shit, and in a far worse condition than he’d been when he’d come to see them at Baker Street five days ago. Dark circles under his eyes, visibly losing weight rapidly, judging by the bagginess of is clothes, and his fingers visibly trembling as he rolls a cigarette on the platform. John might blame it on the cold but it’s highly unlikely. Sherlock is silent, absorbing every little detail about Henry that has changed since they’ve last seen him, storing and building and making the pieces of clockwork that are Henry Baskerville in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes into a new puzzle to solve. Calculating, timing, cataloguing. They’re all pressing till they’re solved. 

Henry had described the house as rotting to them a number of times, and on this John concurred with him. As they pull up to the gates he can see the moor facing wall draped in moss and ivy, boarded up windows on the upper floors, paint chipping away and ceiling tiles hanging loose. It was old beyond measure, a family heirloom no doubt, sinking into the moor by the moment as the wind groaned and rattled through her halls. Poor fellow must be a nightmare living here John thought to himself. He’d said he was from Florida, no wonder he looked so horribly off colour. 

They are shown into a makeshift living area. It was obviously once a hall of sorts, the high ceilings and carved paneling give it away. But it was mostly stripped down now, its former luster long gone save for an old portrait on the doorway who, judging by Henry’s noticeable resemblance to him, must have been the original master of the house. Sir Charles Baskerville, Sherlock confirms. Of course, he’s already done his homework. 

There are a couple of armchairs and Henry invites them to sit down. He’s clearly ready to start talking; the poor man can barely keep his hands steady. John motions Sherlock that he’s going to go, but Sherlock’s look only tells him to stay. “He wants me here,” John thinks to himself. It’s a nice warm rush of affection, and John berates himself for forgetting that despite all his efforts to indicate the contrary, Sherlock is in fact human. So he stays. Sherlock is noticeably more relaxed as John takes the chair next to his. 

“Henry Baskerville, 26 years old, born in Devon, raised in Florida as an American citizen. Entrepreneur, your business recently took a dive, consequently so did most of your stocks. Terribly broke then. Lived with your father, you got on well, he’s even your business partner. Had to leave you urgently soon after your financial disaster due to the disappearance of his estranged brother back home in England. You were close; therefore you would have been in constant contact. You notice he’s gone missing once the line of contact has been severed, and you come down here yourself. Should you wish to clarify on anything, I’m listening.”

Sherlock is being careful with Henry. Far less rash than he was with him at Baker Street, less cold, less intimidating. He recognizes that Henry will not respond well to further intimidation. Being tactical, or honestly being nice? John likes to think it’s a bit of both, after all, Sherlock doesn’t purposely aim to traumatize already slightly disturbed people. 

“Yes, yes Mr. Holmes,” Henry is half stammering, slightly hoarse.

“Do call me Sherlock, please.” He manages a smile for him.

Being nice then. John is silently proud. He feels protective of Sherlock the more he engages with people. 

“Sherlock, yes.” Henry looks slightly more at ease.

“Tell us how you want me to help you”. Sherlock prompts him again.

“Don’t think I’m crazy,” Henry blurts out, “But I think the house is cursed. My father and uncle lived here as boys. Their mother raised them here, while their father was permanently in London on business. I was told at a point there was an accident with a stray dog from the moor, and my father and uncle were moved to the city with their father permanently. On one occasion, many years later, my grandfather decided to shut up the house for good and stop paying people to take care of it. But there was some sort of dispute and he had to come up here himself. He wasn’t here 3 days before he disappeared off the face of the earth. They searched the moor for days and found neither head nor hair of him. My uncle being the eldest, he was naturally the next master of the house, and while he and my father continued to keep a staff there, both of them refused to live in it. “

“And you base your father and uncle’s disdain for the house, as well as your grandfather’s disappearance as evidence to support your claim. So far this is not concrete evidence that your house is in fact ‘cursed’”. Sherlock is getting annoyed. Sob stories aren't his forte, and Henry’s claims are quite fantastical. He could be doing something more useful like growing a new culture of bacteria behind the sink. 

“Will you let me finish Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, my apologies do go on.” Sherlock’s patience is wearing thin.

“Some time later my father married my mother and they moved back to Devon. I was born there soon after. My memories of it are vague. Most of the following is my father’s version of the events. He tells me that when I was very young, my uncle kept insisting that they take me to see the house. My father categorically refused. My mother, not knowing of any reason why not eventually convinced him. While there, I was apparently injured and a fight broke out. Consequently my mother left me and my father, and my father hasn’t spoken to my uncle since. Until last week of course, which is what I find most puzzling. My father and uncle have been estranged for over twenty years, my father couldn’t even mention him without looking like he’d swallowed something sour. And suddenly he calls with an emergency about the blasted house and my father is packing to go to England. It wasn’t even four hours later that the local authorities call him to say he’s been reported missing. Two weeks go by, and my father calls every day. They’ve been combing the moor in search for my uncle with no results. The morning he’s meant to be going up to the house, everything falls dead. They called me later that night to tell me he’s gone missing too. Three people go missing in the same place, no bodies are recovered, every possible authority has tried and come up with nothing. Mr. Holmes… Sherlock, you’re my last possible chance at getting any peace of mind about this.”

The flattery fans Sherlock’s flame. John sees him processing it. It’s interesting enough of course. John is trying to come up with plausible explanations himself. The house was empty each time someone went missing, there aren’t signs of any other life for miles, and there is absolutely no one with any motive whatsoever to be accused of wishing harm on the family. Sherlock thinks for a moment longer. 

“What about the dogs?” Sherlock is ironing out the few loose ends that haven’t escaped him.

“Excuse me?” Henry seems genuinely surprised; he doesn’t consider them a likely contributing factor then.

“You mentioned something about dogs before at Baker Street, a quick search through local media confirmed reports of canine attacks on sheep from local farmers, the guilty party of which is yet to be caught.”

“Oh you mean the wolves. They say that they’re big dogs not to scare the locals but they’re definitively wolves. I’m the closest one out on the moor, I’ve heard them. I’ve been out searching with the police, we found no bodies, not even traces of bone or sinew or a single drop of blood. If the wolves had attacked them we would have found some trace of them somewhere.” 

Sherlock is cataloguing the information once more. After a rather uncomfortable silence between John and Henry wondering if he’d gone comatose, Sherlock spoke again.

“You’re going to take us to the moor Henry, tonight.”  
___

 

John is left with Henry in his care as Sherlock goes snooping around the house and the grounds. The young man is clearly shaken. He cannot fathom why Sherlock wants to lead him right into the spot where three of his relatives disappeared, in the middle of the night, with no protection, and with a couple of killer canines wondering about in the very same place. Henry is definitely uncomfortable with the idea. But not as uncomfortable as he is with the house. John notices it even more as soon as he’s left alone with Henry. Being in the rooms makes him uneasy. He constantly looks over his shoulder, trying to be discreet as possible. The howling wind in the shut up top floors make him wince slightly. The stream of constant cigarettes and his trembling hands barely keeping them steady. His obvious lack of sleep and malnutrition. John’s doctor instincts were kicking in. He felt much more sympathetic towards Henry now. 

He hands Henry a cup of tea and smiles at him kindly. Henry is silently relieved that they haven’t left him in the house alone. John absolutely doesn’t know what to make of it. The whole thing was too puzzling, the moor to eerie, the circumstances too good to be co-incidental. And poor Henry was caught like an old dog caught in a hailstorm, being flung around from one end to the next without a clue. 

“Not to be rude Henry, but you look absolutely terrible.” Smooth Watson, John thinks to himself, great way to inquire after someone’s health. 

He gets a surprising chuckle out of Henry. “I know mate” He says, “My living conditions haven’t been stellar these past two weeks.”

“Are you eating often, sleeping well? I am a doctor you know. These are all possible side effects of stressful situations, and you have been through a considerable amount of trauma lately.”

“I grab a bite here and there when I’m not trying to tie all of my father and uncle’s business up. And I don’t sleep as much as I black out.”

“Black out? In what sense?”

“Well I stay up in my study quite late at night, trying to save my sinking sip of a business, but I never go to bed. I must fall asleep at the desk or something, but every morning I wake up somewhere new, never in bed. Sometimes in a corridor, sometimes in one of the drawing rooms, once even in one of the sheds outside. I seem to black out completely and wander around the bloody house sleepwalking.”

“That is odd.” Says John thoughtfully. 

“And tiring.” Henry adds. “I wake up with splitting head aches and every inch of my body aching as though I’ve been out for a tumble in the moor on my hands and knees.”

“The exertion and over-tiredness isn’t doing any good to your body either. A good night’s sleep is definitely in order. Tell you what, I’ve got some mild tranquilizers in my emergency kit, I’ll give you one when we get back from the moor.”

“That would be quite nice Doctor Watson, thank you,” Henry said with a genuine smile. 

The poor lad was honestly looking forward to a decent night sleeping thought John with a hint of pity.  
Too bad he never quite got to give him that tranquilizer.  
___

 

The moor is cold. Intolerably cold. Even Sherlock, with his thick coat, scarf and gloves ever present can feel it biting at his face and ears, and the tiny fragment of his skin that were exposed. The cold didn’t bother John as much. Roughing it out in desert had taught him just how cold it can get in Afghanistan. Is return to the English winters had been much welcome. Henry was well wrapped up; jacket zipped up, scarf wound tight and a beanie snug around his head. They begin to walk.

Being on the moor itself is uncomfortable enough by day, but at night it was practically unnerving. For all one might think there is nothing generically spooky about a conglomerate of trees and several species of woodland animals as its inhabitants, but the mind has a habit of tricking us that the mundane is much scarier than it seems. As they walked the forest it was dead silent. Their torches cast a shadow of a few feet in front of them as they crunched on the occasional twig amongst the foliage. As best as they fought to ignore it, the feeling that they were being watched was imminent. Nothing usually alive with all manner of creatures is dead silent at nightfall. They walk on and continue to find nothing, Sherlock getting audibly more frustrated (and frustrating) as he mutters meaningless things to himself. 

After several hours Sherlock is about to snap. His patience is wearing thin, its cold, and he is BORED.  
“  
Well this was completely fruitless,” Sherlock says with contempt. “We should head back now before my ears freeze off.”

Henry is immediately resentful. “Excuse me but wasn’t it your idea to come out here in the first place? If you didn’t think we were going to get any useful results than we shouldn’t have come in the first place.”

“Going by your request not to judge you as a crazy person, I had to work for some form of evidence to back up your fantastic claims myself. There is nothing out ere Henry. All of this was just a waste of my time.”

“If you though I was such a waste of your time Mr. Holmes, then you shouldn’t have taken my case. Or perhaps you just don’t think that members of my family inexplicably going missing are worth your time.”

“Well that’s just it Henry, it’s all inexplicable. They might have just run off somewhere else suddenly for all I know, there isn’t any evidence to suggest otherwise. There isn’t any evidence at all actually. I have nothing to go on, I can’t make any bricks without clay. Three hours out on this blasted moor and we haven’t even heard a whimper out of your elusive wolves.”

Henry is practically fuming. Sherlock has gone too far for Henry’s temper, a familiar feeling to John. He is about to retort when like clockwork they hear it. The howling of wolves. Sherlock’s face falls. Henry loses it. He falls to the ground and starts to convulse violently. His body starts to shift and twist awkwardly. Sherlock visibly has no idea how to process what his eyes are seeing. And suddenly it huts John. 

Blackouts

Shit.

John drapes his arm protectively over Sherlock and pushes him backwards. “Stay back!” he yells at him with urgency. There is much movement in the foliage in front of them and when it settles they can clearly see that in Henry’s place there is a hulking, black wolf, its hackles raised, tail bent, growling menacingly towards them. It is sizing Sherlock and John up closer and closer. Sherlock is rocking between fear and disbelief. John knows it’s time. 

“Sherlock,” he says loudly, “whatever happens now you stay behind me at all costs ok? Do not move from this spot as long as it is possible.” And with that, John drops to his feet and effortlessly morphs into a large sandy wolf. Sherlock’s jaw is about to drop. 

Wolf John is much larger than wolf Henry, but the latter looks crazed and violent and beyond any peaceful senses. John stands firmly in front of Sherlock just as he was before, defiantly staring Henry down. Henry backs up from the other wolf, looking intimidated, but not enough to back out of a fight. He lunges at John, but John deflects him easily and pushes him to the side, nipping him on the tail. John repeatedly refuses to engage Henry directly, infuriating the smaller wolf to no end. But Henry finally catches John’s gimmick. He is only trying to distract him form Sherlock. As soon as he realizes this, he does the only thing that comes natural to him. He lunges for Sherlock.

But John is much too fast for Henry to be successful. He blows him out of the way once more but this time he doesn’t lay off. John has the upper hand, they roll around in a flurry of bites and growls, intentionally inflicting pain when he found the opportunity. No one tries to hurt his Sherlock and gets away with it. They go at it for a few more minutes before John takes a particularly vicious bite on Henry’s back and the younger wolf retreats sulkily back into the forest. John waits a few minutes for him to disappear completely before he  
drops to the ground at Sherlock’s feet and changes back into human form, panting at the effort of his skirmish with Henry.

Sherlock is rooted to his spot against the tree John had shoved him against, unable to currently form sentences. There is a horribly awkward silence between them. 

“John,” Sherlock tries to start. “You’re naked.” 

Sherlock berates himself mentally. He did not have to bring that up.

“Yes well …” John doesn’t know how to continue. Sherlock takes off his coat and tosses it to him. Considering John’s transformation had ripped through most of his clothes, including his pants, it was the most decent thing he could afford him. John’s jacket however, was salvageable, and Sherlock took that for himself. 

“So you’re a, a, uhm ..” Sherlock struggles to be diplomatic.

“For lack of a better word, yes Sherlock, I’m a werewolf.” John starts to lead them out of the forest in a hurried pace. Sherlock can see large scratches and bruises forming from him tumble with Henry. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well it’s not something I advertise, is it? Yeah I’d love to share a flat with you mate. My hobbies include rugby, watching footy, and the ability to occasionally turn into a giant wolf. I’d have job offers and flat mates pouring in by the legion.”

“I always thought there was something I hadn’t quite put my finger on about you. I guess werewolf just never crossed my mind.”

“Look Sherlock I’m sorry I’ve never told you, but can we discuss this later, because right now Henry is in danger and if we don’t do something soon he’s going to be stuck like that permanently.”

Sherlock went silent. “Tell me what we have to do.” 

“Well the basic thing about shifting into a wolf is trigger. When you’re feeling angry or scared or threatened, for people like us, our bodies’ reaction is to phase into wolf form. But the difference between me and Henry is that he has the inherited gene, while I was bitten. Wolves that are bitten have more control over their triggers and we don’t become so senseless when we shift. In time we even learn to retain our consciousness if we are forced to shift. But those who are born wolves are different, they tend to be more short tempered and aggressive, especially if they continue to live close to the place where they unlocked their first shift, the place will continue to trigger them. I should have worked it out sooner when Henry mentioned he was having blackouts. He was shifting into wolf form during the night and not remembering. Henry’s family has been living on this property for generations; of course it would be a major trigger for him. The same goes for his father and uncle. But if we don’t get Henry to shift back soon he’s going to be stuck as a mindless wolf permanently.”

And for once Sherlock listened in silence as John told him about everything he never knew, and instructed him on how they were going to save Henry.  
___

 

Sherlock waited patiently in his hiding place as John had instructed. This was not a virtue he practiced often but a lot was at stake here. John couldn’t tell him what to do while he was in wolf form, and too much was at stake here if he deviated one step from John’s plan. He did not have long to wait though. As the howling from the moor got closer and closer, Sherlock’s only hope is that the father and the uncle, who’d permanently shifted into wolves according to John’s theory, hadn’t found them. John was unlikely to beat them outmatched three to one. 

But he was both relieved and panicked to see John’s sandy wolf form being chased by Henry’s, as he lead him into to the courtyard in front of the house where Sherlock was hiding. John feigned giving Henry an advantage, then changed tactic as he backed him up into a corner, closer and closer towards Sherlock, while keeping him distracted enough not to notice is scent. Wolf John looks briefly once into Sherlock’s direction and he knows it’s time to strike. 

He quietly stalks out of his hiding place directly behind Henry, takes a quick running start, and jumps directly onto the startled wolf’s back. Leaving him no time to regain clarity, Sherlock whips out three of John’s tranquilizers, diluted into one syringe, and stabs them directly into the black wolf’s thick neck. Sherlock hold on for dear life as the wolf thrashes around, but the tranquilizers soon kick in, and the wolf falls out cold on the floor as it turns back into a human Henry.

Sherlock rolls off him panting from the effort, as John turns back into a human. They gather all their things up as quickly as possible, bundle Henry up into the car, and drive to the nearest hotel as fast as they can.  
___

 

John walks out of the bathroom wrapped in a robe, his hair steaming from the hot shower he had just treated himself too. Sherlock was lounging on the bed, his brain barreling forward at a thousand miles an hour, trying to process everything he had seen tonight. The hotel only had two rooms left, so John and Sherlock shared the other room so that poor Henry could sleep off his assault of tranquilizers in peace. There was still a horrible silence lingering between them however. 

“Henry will be fine as long as he stays away from the house. Nothing will ever trigger him as bad as it did there beyond his control.”

Sherlock looks at him, but still has not spoken. John is slightly at a loss.

“Look Sherlock, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about, well about all this. I’ve never had to tell anyone except the recruiting officer in Bath. It’s my most guarded secret and if I’ve ever had to trust it with anyone it would be you. As soon as we get back to London I’m moving out, ok? You never have to hear form me again and I will leave you alone …”

“John.” Sherlock interrupts him as he moves off the bed and walks up to him.

“Shut up.”

And Sherlock presses his lips to John’s mid-sentence to stop the stream of ludicrous proposals.

“Mmmmmhhmmmm !!” John protests, but he doesn’t back off. And suddenly Sherlock is no longer kissing him, but he is kissing Sherlock. He fists his hands into the detective’s hair and pulls him closer, as an encouraged Sherlock grabs John by the waist and attempts to do the same. He wants John to be closer, as close as he can get, needs to crawl on every inch on his skin and leave his mark there to make sure he doesn’t lose him, especially over something as silly as lycanthropy. The kiss deepens. They recognize a need in each other that they had not seen before. Communicating things they had always felt with their lips and their hands. No one is ever going to hurt for as long as you’re mine, and far longer, John is saying. I am never, ever going to let you get away from me, says Sherlock. And the room is completely silent, save for their heavy breathing. 

“I guess I’m not moving out then.” Says John, his face buried in Sherlock’s, chest breathing in relief.

“Idiot.” Sherlock retorts, “As if I was ever going to let you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” John says as he presses tiny kisses into his shoulder. 

They collapse onto the bed, drowning in each other and their exhaustion. 

“John,” Sherlock starts again sleepily, “before you said that for you to turn into a wolf, you had to be triggered by something, or lose your temper. Which means I was responsible for setting Henry off in the forest then?”

“Yes you were. But don’t worry about it, you didn’t know and I should have recognized the symptoms sooner. You were just being yourself.” John say with a smirk.

“All this time John, the number of times I could have set you off, the number of times I’ve made you angry, or done something purposely to make you angry and get you to do something the way I wanted. You haven’t truly lost your temper at me once; otherwise I’d most likely be a pile of shredded Sherlock at the moment.”

“Because you idiot,” John cuddles closer to Sherlock, “I am pretty much incapable of losing my temper with you.”

And Sherlock kissed him again.


End file.
